In what language do you dream if you are bi/multi lingual? I asked a patron once, whose first language is Mandarin, with two others creeping in for good measure; she declared the native tongue. Interestingly, if she was angry, it was in English.
Sadly, I’m a lazy american, who has not ventured beyond elementary Espanol. I know, I know! I’d rather dream in French. Instead, I’m reading, Dreaming In French: The Paris Years of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, Susan Sontag, and Angela Davis. A book regarding three interesting Americans in Paris during a pivotal time in literary history, no Freudian analysis included. I skipped Camelot’s lady, and went straight to where Sontag appears. Thus far, a fascinating read, but I don’t get these old school feminist gender politics.
Speaking of Paris, feminist, and controversy; a bit of squawking about Anais Nin lately. I finally found her today at the used book store. She was just beyond memoir, not in fiction, but erotica. Voila, Anais Nin: a hardcover copy, 1979. Will this little book cause the cheeks to flame…
;
Well, it’s long after midnight; the dog sleeps heavily next to me; there is a cool breeze coaxing these eyelids heavy; and the brain weaves.
There is a poem, however, that won’t leave. Sadly, the ‘best’ version is lodged between gravel dust and my jogging brain. Despite the chatterly flow, I didn’t stop this morning’s jog to jot it down, so it’s lost forever. Here is a much different version, it doesn’t flow at all, but I’m posting it anyway~
I lost another life yesterday. God rolled
random rocks under me. Stunned silent, an eyelash
blinked disbelief, filtering out everything as
the left palm,
the left bony wrist,
the left foot
all hit.
Metal to skin, to rock, to pavement.
A white pretzel metal alloy
suddenly collapsed me.
I laughed at the irony.
Cockiness that rolled me home ;just knocked me down.
Traffic roared past at 50 /60 mph
less than ten paces,
less than a car length.
No broken bones, just broken pride.
How did it happen – I blame him
or a bad bicycle operator.
George W Mahn III
/ 2012/05/13Every once in awhile I hear languages in my dreams that I studied long ago (German, French, Spanish…Music) and now I have no idea what the hell people are saying!
Funny though, mentioning Camelot made me think of Richard Harris singing to Vanessa Redgrave – or was she one of the other sisters??
“Well, it’s long after midnight…” seems like the perfect time to find out if that little book causes “the cheeks to flame!”
Let that cool breeze soothe your wounded pride.
Carl D'Agostino
/ 2012/05/13Having that pride broken now and then is probably healthy for us.
Andra Watkins
/ 2012/05/13I wish I dreamed. My dreams are vapor that fogs my brain when I’m awake. I hope you have no lasting damage.
sharingmemyselfandi
/ 2012/05/13I don’t remember most words or conversations – just images & written words. The written words have always been in English.
kateshrewsday
/ 2012/05/13Never heard of this author, Angela. Sounds like the book needs investigating. I love the form and rhythm of your poem